A Chosen Path
by TheBladedancer
Summary: And in The Beginning, there stood Nine above all others.... The story of the Creation and the Birth of the Charter. (Note: This will--one day--include the first battle against Orannis.)
1. A Letter For Nix's Deplorable Minions

Fellow Fans of Mr. Garth Nix,  
  
Nix has so far written three books about the Old Kingdom. It's amazing how many rules you have to follow when writing a fanfiction from three books! And people say Lord of the Rings is bad!  
  
Sabriel (the book, not character) gives us very little information about The Beginning. Only a couple of comments here and there about the "Five Great Charters" rhyme. Most of the information we have to work with comes from Lirael and Abhorsen.  
  
Still, not everything is specified about The Beginning. A lot of it has been left for our imaginations. The genders of the Seven is a major issue and I see a lot of variety in the fanfictions here.  
  
At any rate, I've made some pretty intellectual guesses. (Don't think I just woke up one day and decided to write this fanfiction; research was put into it.) Feel free to correct me if I am wrong. If you do, please tell me where you found the information. It would be MUCH appreciated. Thank you.  
  
Anyway, moving on.  
  
Long long ago in a galaxy far, far away-er, well, a few years ago (I think just after Lirael, but don't hold me to it) I tried an Old Kingdom fanfiction. As you can guess, it didn't work at all. Figures. I think at the time, I was too caught up with the book I was writing by myself.  
  
But for whatever reason, I forgot about it COMPLETELY until a few weeks ago when my friend began her fanfiction of Sabriel. I was rummaging through some old notes I had of the Old Kingdom for my website (no, folks, I am not a nerd * cough *) and I found this short story that was supposedly Chapter One.  
  
Crash.  
  
I rewrote it and, with the added knowledge of all that is good in Abhorsen, I started writing it again. To make a long story short, Enjoy the fanfic; it's been a long time coming.  
  
I usually like to stay hidden away in the Forgotten Realms section of the site, but I'm feeling up to exploring. Have patience. My six braincells are hard-pressed.  
  
~Aithne, TheBladedancer  
  
PS-I do not own any of the characters mentioned in the following chapters of this fanfiction. Well, some I do, but they are just random appearances who no one really cares about. The main characters in this fanfiction belong to a fantasy-MASTERMIND named Garth Nix. Please, worship him. Sacrifice goats for him. BUT, please remember to send all proceeds to me. I will gladly hold all money, checks, or credit cards in my care until the men in white come for me. 


	2. Chapter I

Chapter One  
  
The maiden was no older than twenty. Her soft features told anyone that easily. A red bandanna covered her dusty-blond hair, cropped short near her ears. She was extremely thin-probably from the lacking of nutritious food in the Dragon's Eye inn at which she was working.  
  
At least it pays well, she thought ruefully as she scrubbed clean a saucer. Her hands were amazingly soft despite the fact that she had been washing dishes the entire morning. She set the saucer down and reached for another plate to rinse.  
  
"Are you done yet, Ranna?" a man called to her impatiently. Just by the sound of his voice, anyone could tell that he was an overweight man, beefy and usually ill-tempered.  
  
Ranna's lips thinned. Clearly irritated, she shook her head. "No, Mister Phillid," she replied, her words slurring into a long sigh.  
  
"Last time I checked, we didn't keep you here to simply wash dishes," the owner of the inn and tavern snapped. He turned his head and Ranna could see clearly his fat, red face. She glanced away and set a clean plate on the counter. "Get over here and help tend to the customers, girl!"  
  
"Yes, sir," she responded stoutly, her emphasis on "sir" showing her disrespect. If Phillid notice, he said nothing.  
  
Walking out from the kitchen, the young woman felt more than one set of eyes on her. Men, some drunk, turned their faces. One whistled, but Ranna didn't seem to mind. Working in a tavern taught her a lot, and disregarding catcalls and hoots was one of those lessons.  
  
She promptly walked over to a table where a young man was sitting alone, his feet propped up on the chair opposite of the one he was sitting in. Strands of dark brown hair fell over his eyes, but he looked up still the same when he heard Ranna's approaching footsteps.  
  
"Old man giving you trouble?" he asked before Ranna could ask what drink he wanted. Ranna gave him a wistful smile.  
  
"No," she told him honestly. "It's a busy night, that's all."  
  
The young man-not much older than she was-nodded. "I'll take an ale then," he said politely. Ranna nodded and skirted away to the bar. Phillid quickly shuffled around to fill a mug.  
  
Within minutes, Ranna had returned to the man and handed him his drink. He handed her the coins without being prompted, but before she could move away to another table, he questioned, "What's your name?"  
  
Ranna's eyes couldn't help but glance over the man a second time, slightly taken aback. Her lips pursed. "Ranna," she replied stiffly and then walked away. The man smiled at her and took a sip of his ale.  
  
The night passed quickly, Ranna handling most of the customers by herself. It was fairly busy, but the Dragon's Eye inn had seen much better nights than this. Only once did Phillid have to come and break up a would-be fight. It seems one man, obviously drunk, had claimed the other was cheating in their card game. Other than that, the night was ordinary.  
  
"Closing now," Phillid growled, breaking Ranna's thoughts. She glanced up and saw that the moon was already far into the sky, midnight and closing time. "Everybody get out." Surprisingly there was a good number still in the bar. The man who had spoken to Ranna earlier was still sitting quietly in the corner. Hearing Phillid's announcement, he stood and began trailing the larger crowd out of the door.  
  
He glanced at Ranna as he passed, his eyes surveying her, she knew. As his eyes paced over her, she felt a flash of pain come to her forehead. Her hand flew up to touch the skin. The man turned away just as Ranna brought her hand down. Curiously, Ranna watched as the man walked out of sight, but Phillid hurriedly closed the door, blocking her view.  
  
"Get to bed, girl," he snapped. Ranna flew out of her muses with a snap, hearing his voice. "You be needin' to work tomorrow again." Ranna, too puzzled by what had just happened, didn't argue.  
  
*** *** ***  
  
"They're coming!" the man shouted. Mosrael breathed out heavily and nervously but he said nothing in reply to his father. Instead he clutched his sword tight in his hand, doubting that it would help at all.  
  
"What are we going to do?" Mosrael's mother asked frantically, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. Her dark black hair fell from the bun it was in and down her back. She didn't seem to notice. In her hands was Mosrael's younger sister, just a baby. Even though there was no way for the little one to know the terrible danger they were in, she was wailing loudly.  
  
"We're going to fight," his father said decidedly, glancing at his son. Mosrael nodded grimly, trying to assure his mother. "Go, Manae," he said to his wife. "Run south as fast as you can. Mosrael and I will hold them off and then find you in Belisaere."  
  
Manae hesitated but she was far too consumed by fear to object. She glanced at her husband and nodded dumbly. Quickly, she hurried from the house. As she opened the door, Mosrael caught a peek of the Dead that were coming their way.  
  
"Shadow Hands," his father voiced. His tone was dark and angry. Slowly he turned to his son. "Mosrael, I want you to go."  
  
"And leave you here?" his son asked incredulously. "I can't do that, Pa. We're fighting together."  
  
"And then we'd die together," he snapped. "Go, Mosrael." When Mosrael didn't move, his father shoved him to the door. "Go before it is too late."  
  
"Pa. . . ." Mosrael felt his grip slacking on his sword. His father stood sternly over his son.  
  
"You're a young man, Mosrael," his father said, his voice deep and sincere. "You have a life ahead of you. Go find your mother and your sister. Take care of them."  
  
Mosrael nodded although the action didn't register in his mind until seconds after. He hugged his father tightly, but their embrace didn't last long at all.  
  
His father pushed him away. "Go," he said to Mosrael. "The back door; it's your only chance now."  
  
Mosrael wasted no time. He hurried to the back door and yanked it open just as the door near his father snapped to pieces.  
  
"Go now!" his father yelled without turning. Mosrael seemed to be frozen in place. Only when he saw his father's blade crack into pieces and clatter to the ground; only when he saw the Shadow Hands swamp around his father, surrounding him into darkness, did Mosrael begin to move his feet.  
  
Mosrael raced from the house and down the road. The night was dark, but there was enough light by the moon for Mosrael to see. He raced down the road in anger, his skin even paler than usual in the starlight. His black hair was mixing with sweat, but he didn't stop running.  
  
Then he heard a scream.  
  
Instantly, Mosrael stopped. Not a second after, the scream was cut off, leaving Mosrael shaking uncontrollably. He knew that scream. It was his mother's scream.  
  
Move, he told his feet. Run away! But they didn't listen. Mosrael looked behind and he saw his house in flames. Somehow it had been set on fire.  
  
Mosrael breathed in heavily as he saw the Dead begin to converge near the turn in the road behind him. He swallowed, sensing that horrible lump of fear in his throat.  
  
Before he could work out a plan in his mind, he was flying down the road, his eyes blinded by tears of fear and rage. He had no family now. He was alone. Mosrael only had one thought as he sped along, leaving the Dead and his home behind. Revenge. 


	3. Chapter II

Chapter Two  
  
Belgaer stifled a yawn as he headed down the main road to his blacksmith shop. The sun had just risen, but already there were people bustling around the streets. Such was a day in Belisaere.  
  
A young woman peered at him from the side of the street, fluttering her eyelashes flirtatiously. Belgaer flashed her a smile before he disappeared into the crowd.  
  
Truly, he was handsome. His tan skin was dark in the summer sun and his wavy, light brown hair attracted many looks from the ladies of the city. But, Belgaer grumble in his mind, that's before they hear me speak.  
  
Long had Belgaer been known for his head-strong, highly opinionated mindset. Ever since he was a boy, he had been stubborn. When given orders, there was always a tendency for the young man to run off and do whatever he wanted instead. It was a chance taken when dealing with Belgaer.  
  
Unfortunately, he was one of the best blacksmiths in the entire city. People had to deal with him if they wanted something fixed of made. But, Belgaer didn't care. It was a risk they were taking, not him.  
  
"Master Belgaer," a humble voice said as he entered the small shop he had set up. "A message came for you yesterday evening. I did not want to disturb you so-"  
  
"What's the message, Krucail?" Belgaer asked, interrupting the old man. Many months before, the old man had staggered into his shop, seeking work and food. Belgaer-despite what people had thought of him-took the man in.  
  
"A man came in after you left, telling you to be looking for a lady in white." Krucail's face scrunched up in confusion as he went on. "He said she would be coming with others to-"  
  
"You really should stop listening to the drunks, Krucail, " Belgaer told him absently. He walked over to his worktable and took out a hammer.  
  
"He was quite somber, sir," Krucail replied. "The lady will be coming soon, he said, and she would seek you out."  
  
"Plenty of ladies seek me out," Belgaer told him arrogantly. The old man didn't seem to notice. "One lady won't be any more special than the other."  
  
"I don't know, Master Belgaer." Krucail's tone was hesitant, rethinking the mysterious visitor last night. "He left this." Krucail's hand went into his robes and he pulled out a thin slip of parchment.  
  
Belgaer set down his hammer and looked at the paper. "It's a circle," he said simply, giving a shrug. "A circle and a triangle inside. A toddler's doodling."  
  
Krucail didn't seem convinced, but he didn't question Belgaer's assumption. It wasn't his place to do so and he wouldn't voice any doubt he had in his mind. The old man knew full well that it would only go in one of Belgaer's ears and out the other.  
  
*** *** ***  
  
"I am getting entirely too old for this," the thief grumbled, disregarding the fact that he was only twenty-two. His fingers ran through his dirty blonde hair that had streaked brown in the summer sun. He knelt down beside the door and began picking the lock with careful hands.  
  
After only a few seconds of trying, there was a soft click and Yrael the thief grinned. Now for the fun part, he thought. In a silence that had been perfected over years of practice, he stalked across the room to the chest that sat in the dark corner.  
  
The chest had been heavily guarded, but Yrael was ever up to a challenge. He had gotten past hundreds of locks this evening and at least ten magical wards, invisible barriers of this Free Magic, as the people was calling it.  
  
Rubbing his hands together, he bent down and opened the chest. Gold flashed before his eyes. Rubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires-all for the taking! Yrael's eyes sparkled.  
  
Licking his lips eagerly, he began to scoop handfuls of gold into his satchel. Gold coins streaming from his palms as he let them slide into his bag. He was smiling now, far too happy to worry about stealth. The clinking of the coins was worth it.  
  
Yrael scooped through the chest, searching for any other valuable jewelry. He found a necklace of pearls, but disregarded it. Pearls weren't his type. His eyes caught something twinkling. Yes, rubies were definitely his type.  
  
"Stop, thief!" Yrael's head shot up as ten guards came bustling into the room. Yrael's eyes narrowed; he hadn't even heard the guards approach.  
  
"What?" he asked innocently, dumping the last handful of jewels into his bag. "Me?"  
  
"Yrael the thief," a man voiced triumphantly, stepping forward. Yrael's heart plummeted. He had trouble now.  
  
"Kealei the Killer," Yrael smirked, standing up, the bag in his hands. Kealei's victorious smile faded.  
  
"I kill only those who deserve it," he replied.  
  
"I bet," Yrael drawled. "The captain of the guards is simply full of justice and good intentions." He carefully took a step away from the guards. Kealei laughed.  
  
"Yrael!" he laughed. "Don't even bother. There's no way out. The Royal Thief has been captured!" Yrael winced at his nickname being used to sarcastically.  
  
"Captured?" Yrael asked smartly. He felt a lump in his throat. This was the last card he had to play and his only chance. Kealei smiled, nodding. Slowly he drew his sword, as if savoring the moment.  
  
"Captured, you say?" Yrael asked, buying himself time. He twisted his mouth into a sly grin. Without any warning, light exploded in the dark room, throwing all the guards off their feet. They dropped their swords to shield their eyes and Yrael, despite the situation, had to laugh.  
  
"Captured is such a loose word, Kealei," he boomed. Free Magic burned the air. "Best to leave it unspoken." With that, the Royal Thief Yrael glided swiftly through the door, nothing more than a gleaming shimmer of white light.  
  
Yrael stayed just long enough to hear Kealei shout one final damning curse at him and scream at his guards to get on their feet. 


	4. Chapter III

Chapter Three  
  
Astarael fell to the ground, her eyes red from crying. Red blotches were on her cheeks and her mouth was watering.  
  
See what you have done? Voices screamed at her inside her head and her arms wrapped themselves around her shoulders tightly, a protecting clasp. You caused this!  
  
"I didn't know!" Astarael yelled aloud. "I didn't know!" The tears she had been trying to hold back began streaming like rivers down her face. Her long eyelashes were soaked again as tear after tear clung to them.  
  
That doesn't matter, a nasty voice said from the very back of her mind. You caused their death. You alone! You'll pay for it somehow! You will, Astarael! They will hate you forever! In Death they hate you! You killed them and you will pay for your mistake!  
  
"I didn't know!" she screamed. The yelling voice vanished as the birds in the trees flew away from her shout. The cawed in alarm as they soared away, leaving Astarael completely alone.  
  
"I didn't know," she mumbled unconvincingly. Astarael crawled over to a large oak tree, its roots sticking up above the ground. Seeking some sort of comfort she huddled between two of the roots, leaning against the trunk of the tree.  
  
Her long white hair fell down in a cascade of ringlets. She looked down, her sudden outburst over. Her shirt was torn, she noted in remorse. Her mother had made this shirt and now it was torn. The skirt she was wearing had a long rip in it too.  
  
Astarael was completely silent as she gently fingered the tear, picking at one of the loose threads. She took in a deep shaky breath.  
  
It never fails, she thought, closing her eyes and letting her head rest against the tree. Every single day I have to go through that. Every single day. . . .  
  
It had been nearly three weeks since she had come into the trees, her new home. She had learned much about the forest, the Great Sickle Wood. She knew where the safest trees were and were the dangerous creatures lived. She knew where it was safe to sleep and where there was food.  
  
But she couldn't stop that voice in her head.  
  
She hadn't known the man she invited into her home was a follower of the Free Magic, the magic that burned and killed. How could she have known? He didn't smell like the evil creatures did. He seemed normal, an ordinary Traveler looking for a place to rest. How could she have known?  
  
But she found out that night when he killed her family. When he destroyed their entire village. Astarael sucked in a deep, calming breath in some vain hope that the voice would not return.  
  
It had been her fault, but she hadn't known. Did that cancel out the wrong? Did the villagers hate her? What had happened to them?  
  
Astarael knew that she shouldn't be alive. Her brother had died for her, because she was afraid. Maybe, if she had been brave, he would be alive instead of her. Maybe. . . .  
  
"Like it matters," she gurgled, blinking her eyes. Wiping away the remains of her tears, Astarael stood up and looked around.  
  
Where was she now? Any place worth noting? Astarael looked around, giving the place some sort of inspection. The trees were closer here and the grass was thinner. She cocked her head to the side. Was that water flowing?  
  
Astarael's head spun. Water. The river. The island. She sank to the ground, nearly overwhelmed by the memories.  
  
She remembered the small island. That was where she had first heard the voices in her head, just after the attack on her village. That was where she had given in and forgotten herself.  
  
Astarael had worked hard to bring herself back to the real world around her, but the voice continued to plague her. She couldn't get rid of it. The island had damned her and she was afraid to ever go back there.  
  
As her thoughts began to get more and more frantic, the thunder snapped in a loud roar. The wind picked up, rustling through the leaves and branches above her. Astarael broke out in some sort of hysterical laughter. That was her water! Just the wind in the trees!  
  
The rain began to fall and Astarael licked her lips in new thoughts. Her laughter had ended quickly. She was in trouble. How much longer could she stand the insanity of the loneliness?  
  
People, Astarael thought in sudden desperation. I need to be around people. Her mind whirred in new enlightenment. She knew where she would go. Astarael got to her feet and began trotting off. It was a long way to Belisaere.  
  
*** *** ***  
  
Kibeth was singing. Her hands were clapping the heats like a drum and she was singing. Her face was sprinkled in raindrops and the summer storm was soaking her clothes, but she was singing-loudly.  
  
"And when I was a young girl, just a lass of ten." Her fingers began snapping and she shuffled her feet in the mud. "I told my mama dearest I'd been courtin' men!"  
  
Kibeth laughed at the song. It was a lively bar song she remembered from when she was smaller. Kibeth looked down at her wet boots and made a face. The rain storm was going to slow her pace, whether she liked it or not.  
  
"Guess I have to make the best of it," she muttered, looking for an ideal place to stay the night. She was a Traveler, a rather dangerous occupation in the state of the country, but she enjoyed it. Kibeth had always enjoyed exploring as a child and now that she was grown, it was no different.  
  
She smiled to herself, catching sight of a village in the distance. If she hurried, she would reach it before the storm grew too dark. That settled, Kibeth resumed singing.  
  
"She said I had a foolish heart, if ever there was one." The thunder boomed again, draining out Kibeth's next verse. Not that it mattered because her voice had cracked towards the end, the sudden drum of thunder causing her high spirits to end.  
  
_____________________________________________  
  
My Fellow Penguins:  
  
I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to reply to some questions before now. I was on a vacation this past week. Please don't feel neglected. =P  
  
Nimue, I'm glad you caught that with Yrael/Mogget. I'm planning something along those lines, so don't worry. I didn't miss that little detail in Sabriel; I'm working it a bit differently than you might think. Don't worry though! It follows what Nix has written-it's just not what you might think at first glance.  
  
And I've already been reading the Chronicles. It's an awesome fanfiction. You've put just as much effort as I have into studying Nix and you can tell in the way you write. Keep it up.  
  
Saraneth is coming, by the way. Patience. =D (Saraneth is one of my favorites too, so you know it's going to be a fairly interesting introduction.)  
  
Nimue, thank you for connecting the way I projected the characters to the bells. It was deliberate. I had to go back to what each Lirael and Sabriel said about the bells when Nix introduced them and work from there. I'm glad someone caught it-it makes the work seem worth it.  
  
Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing. It always means a lot when I open up my email and see "Review Alert!" I think all writers enjoy it so shoo and go read more fanfics. Shoo!  
  
~Aithne, TheBladedancer 


	5. Chapter IV

Chapter Four  
  
Orannis didn't even try to hide his cocky grin as his opponent sheathed his sword, defeated. He held his blade in his hand, twirling it expertly, dazzling the crowd watching.  
  
"Anyone else?" he called out. "Does anyone else wish to test their luck against the mighty Orannis?" His eyes shifted to the crowd, watching the men murmur to each other and the women stare at him in amazement and awe.  
  
"No one?" he asked after a moment. The wicked sneer in his voice made his eyes sparkle. He went to sheath his sword in disappointment, but a man stepped forth and Orannis hurriedly pulled it back out again.  
  
"A challenger?" Orannis asked smartly.  
  
"Yes," the man replied bravely. "Hetea from Chasel."  
  
"Well, Hetea, are you ready to fight me?" Orannis outstretched his arms and then dipped low in a bow. Hetea snorted at the mockery and charged unexpectedly.  
  
Orannis, still in his bow, twirled away. Once he was a safe distance from Hetea, he straightened his back, the twinkle gone from his eyes. "That was unfair," he remarked darkly.  
  
"I do what I can to win," Hetea answered. The crowd muttered some things that neither of the two men could catch.  
  
Hetea charged again, but this time Orannis was fully prepared. His sword snapped out, slapping against Hetea's blade, the metal crashing. Hetea stumbled back, but managed to keep on his feet.  
  
"You'll pay for that," Hetea snapped, coming again. Orannis waited until Hetea was right on him before he twirled his sword in a parry.  
  
Hetea backed off and this time Orannis took the offensive. He came slowly, stalking Hetea it seemed. His sword was at his side, but that did little to matter. He was within two steps of Hetea before he moved to attack.  
  
Orannis lifted his sword and began a series of attacks so fast that Hetea was unable to block. His sword darted to the left in a feint, moving in an arc to the right so quickly that Hetea staggered back. Orannis wasted no time in placing his sword at Hetea's exposed neck.  
  
"Do you yield?" he asked, his condescending tone back. Hetea nodded and scrambled to get to his feet. Orannis turned his back on the crowd for a moment looking at the tiny drop of blood on his blade. He must have broken the skin on Hetea's neck-only slightly, he knew.  
  
Oh well, he thought, not feeling any need to apologize.  
  
A soft whisper of a word was uttered from behind, but it was enough. Orannis spun around. The smell of Free Magic he knew all too well filled the air and he glared at Hetea, who was standing before him. Orannis hurried to bring up a shield that would block the magical attack and it had covered him just in time.  
  
"Damn you," Hetea yelled and turned to run. He was too slow. A single word came from Orannis's mouth, spoken under his breath so that no one heard. Instantly Hetea fell to the ground. Orannis turned again, his back to the crowd.  
  
Gathering his belongings, he said to them, "Hetea of Chasel is no more. Let it be a lesson to anyone who dares to attack Orannis the Destroyer while his back is turned. I'm done here."  
  
Without another word, Orannis packed up his things and headed off down the dusty street.  
  
*** *** ***  
  
Not a single person in the crowd wasn't staring at Orannis as he left. Mouths dangled open in an awkward gape as they slowly processed what had happened before them. A man had been killed. The man had just been alive not a moment before, but now.the still body of Hetea littered the ground before them.  
  
There was only one in the crowd who didn't share the near universal expression of fright and amazement, but there was no way for anyone to realize it. His head was completely covered by the cowl of his long cloak, his face hidden to anyone who glanced his way.  
  
Well, the man thought grimly, Dyrim had better be right about this. We are risking an awful lot.  
  
He turned on the heel of his boot sharply and began walking briskly down the street, hardly fazed by the amateur swordsman's death. A woman turned her head to look at him, but nothing was said. The Dead were not the only dangers in the realm; strangers could not be trusted.  
  
The man's palm rested on the pommel of the sword at his side. The position was natural and calm, completely normal for him. He walked down the paved road quietly, his boots clicking against the stone in a light rapping noise.  
  
He had been walking for nearly ten minutes before he turned to his right and entered the tavern that stood along the road. The stench of beer and ale filled his lungs as he took in the sight around him. Men were drinking and flirting with the barmaids; others were sitting in clusters, talking or gambling.  
  
But one was not taking part of the activities around him. He sat alone at a wooden table, a mug of ale tight in his grasp.  
  
So this is Orannis, the man thought as he took a cautious step towards the table. Carefully, he approached and stopped before the man.  
  
There was a still moment of silence where Orannis glanced down at the table, acknowledging the man without looking at him. It seemed like minutes had droned by before he lifted his head and stared hard at the man near his table.  
  
"Yes?" he breezed impatiently, not wanting to be disturbed. He hoped his tone would scare the man off.  
  
"I need to speak with you," the man said, his voice rich and smooth. Orannis snorted.  
  
"Who are you?" he asked.  
  
The man smiled coyly as he brought up his hands to slowly lower his cowl. A few strands of long brown hair had fallen out of the binding leather band, but the man didn't seem to notice. Deep brown eyes stared at Orannis, both studying him and allowing to be studied himself.  
  
"Your name?" Orannis pressed after he had had a good, long look at the man.  
  
"I'm called Saraneth," the man said, moving to sit in the empty chair across from Orannis. "I have been sent here by Lady Dyrim of Navis to-"  
  
"Who again?" Orannis interrupted. Saraneth's lips thinned, but he said nothing of it.  
  
"Lady Dyrim," he repeated. "She has Seen."  
  
"Seen what?" Orannis was beginning to lose his temper and his tone was clearly giving away his skeptical thoughts.  
  
Saraneth didn't answer the question. "I've heard of you, Orannis," he said instead. "I've heard of your powers and skill from all across the realm. I'm sure that some time in your travels you have had a run-in perhaps with the Dead?"  
  
Any other man would have shuddered. Who spoke of the Dead in such a casual way?  
  
But Orannis's face was blank and expressionless as Saraneth went on, leaving his question unanswered,  
  
"Dyrim has Seen new power in the kingdom. She has seen Nine people standing against Free Magic."  
  
"Why stand against it?" Orannis broke in again. Saraneth sighed, but Orannis didn't wait for him to speak. "Use it. It's helped me out-"  
  
"Free Magic kills," Saraneth spoke, his voice suddenly harsh. His eyes turned dark. "It doesn't help anyone. Dyrim knows this; hundreds of people know this. We need to bring an end to the danger here, the Free Magic and the Dead."  
  
"How?" Orannis's voice was short.  
  
"Dyrim knows," was Saraneth's reply. "She has Seen it."  
  
"Ah ha," Orannis laughed, "you've been tricked by a-"  
  
"We need your help, Orannis," Saraneth said, cutting in again. "I have seen you fight. You're skilled."  
  
Orannis put on a smug grin. "However much I accept the compliment, I don't think I'll help you in your little adventure, Sara-Sarn-Sarsa.."  
  
"Saraneth," he supplied icily. He shook his head, letting his annoyance and frustration fade away. He was beginning to think Dyrim had been wrong about asking Orannis for help..  
  
He tried the last trick he had up his sleeve in a vain hope. "We can pay in gold," he offered. Orannis looked up, his eyes wide and glinting.  
  
*** *** ***  
  
Dyrim sat in the cushioned chair sleepily, her eyes half closed. She would be leaving for Belisaere early the next morning and she knew that she would have to be well rested.  
  
Her dirty blond hair fell in soft ringlets down her half-covered back. A thin white shirt fit over her, a tear running along the seam for nearly two inches. A long brown skirt came down to midway down her leg, shortly below her knee.  
  
Dyrim yawned, slipping more comfortably into the chair. She would reach Belisaere and then the visions in her mind would vanish. Dyrim smiled at the thought. She would stop Free Magic and end the Dead.and those Sights plaguing her would finally go away.  
  
Saraneth was already gathering the Nine. She had Seen them all in her dreams and he was following her orders. Dyrim's contented smile faded when she realized how lost she would be if it hadn't been for Saraneth's help.  
  
She had Seen him first in a town in the south. She had sent a message to him, asking for his presence in Navis. She learned through her visions that he was wondering the land, a swordsman and mercenary of sorts. Dyrim had Seen him battle Dead, and she knew that he would be greatly needed on such a quest as this.  
  
All she had to do now was wait. Things were already coming together; it would not be long. 


	6. Chapter V

Chapter V  
  
I hate running from a fight, Yrael snorted as the rain beat pellets down into his arms and face. It stung him, but he knew that he would have to keep his pace if he wanted to run from Kealei and his soldiers.  
  
Thunder boomed in the distance, and Yrael's lips thinned. He didn't like being out in this weather, not when there was such a long distance to go. He had to hurry on...but where was he heading?  
  
All logic told him to make a wide circle and then return to the sourthern lands of the kingdom. He had tricked Kealei by doing this before. But somehow Yrael knew that this time his handy ploy would not work.  
  
"Where to then?" he asked himself aloud, humming slightly although he wasn't heard over the pulsing beat of the falling rain. He turned his head and a strange sight flooded into his eyes: there was a city in the distance.  
  
"Belisaere," Yrael muttered softly, consumed in a new array of muses, "the largest city in this world."  
  
Ha! he thought victoriously. Kealei would never suspect that....  
  
He smiled grimly as he straightened the pack that hung loosely over his shoulder. To Belisaere then. He would work his future from there.  
  
*** *** ***  
  
Dyrim walked slowly into the blacksmith's shop, her blonde hair pinned back so that it didn't hang over her face. She glanced around, her blue eyes sweeping over the area with an unnatural attentiveness.  
  
There was an elderly man sitting at the counter; he seemed to be asleep. Calmly and gracefully, Dyrim glided over to him, clearing her throat delicately.  
  
"Sir?" she asked quietly, not wanting to startle him. The door opened and she turned her head.  
  
"This is the place?" Saraneth asked her, taking the same studying overview of the shop. Dyrim nodded.  
  
"You reached Belisaere quickly," she noted, turning her attention away from the sleeping man. Saraneth shrugged nonchalantly, unconcerned with the assessment. He always traveled swiftly, and he had known that Dyrim would be waiting.  
  
Dyrim pursed her lips at Saraneth's silence. He was always a confusing one, she thought grudgingly. Her slender hand reached out to gently shake the man on the shoulder.  
  
He jumped up, his eyes flying wide. "Who?!" he asked, his words a slur.  
  
Dyrim stood before him, her face unable to be read. "Is Master Belgaer here?" she questioned.  
  
"May I ask who is calling fer 'im?" He looked her over with suspicious eyes. She was dressed in white.  
  
Dyrim smiled placidly as Saraneth found his way to her side. "I am Dyrim, and this is my companion Saraneth. We've journeyed far to speak with him."  
  
The older man nodded uncertainly. "I'll tell him that you've arrived," he shook, the words seeming unnatural. There's something about these two, he shuddered to think.  
  
"Thank you," the one called Dyrim replied as the man hurried to the back of the shop where the tapping of a hammer flooded their ears.  
  
*** *** ***  
  
Orannis yawned, falling down on the bed of the room he had rented from the inn. He lazily stripped himself of his shirt and rolled over on his side, trying to ignore the screams and hoots of the drunken men in the tavern beneath his room.  
  
He had just closed his eyes and was beginning to drift off when a knock came at the door.  
  
"Damn," Orannis muttered under his breath as he forced himself to a sitting position. He rubbed his eyes with one hand as he made his way to the door.  
  
The knock came again, more persistant this time.  
  
"I'm coming!" he called, slightly annoyed at the impatient person at the door. The knocking stopped and Orannis put a hand on the knob.  
  
He was in no mood to be entertaining guests. All day he had accept challengers. True, he had made some valuable money, but he was stressed from the constant use of the sword. Now, all he wanted to do was fall onto his bed and sleep.  
  
He twisted the doorknob and blinked once tiredly. A beautiful young woman stood in the doorway, a tray of food in her hand.  
  
"Ah," she said pointedly, noticing that he was not fully dressed. She looked up, giving him a late-coming smile. "You had said you wanted your tray brought up here. Phillid sent me to bring it to you."  
  
Orannis returned the smile. "I'd forgotten all about the food," he admitted, "but thank you." The woman offered the tray to him and Orannis took it, moving inside his room to set it on the small wooden table there.  
  
"Are you the fighter that came here to let people challenge you?" the serving girl asked, still in the doorway. Orannis turned his head her way.  
  
"Don't tell me I've gotten so much publicity," he snorted caustically. The girl laughed, her radiant eyes sparkling in the humor.  
  
"What's your name?" Orannis asked.  
  
The girl replied, tossing her head to the side, "Ranna."  
  
"Lovely name," Orannis said suavely. "I'll-"  
  
"Phillid says he is up here!" one of the men called. Orannis' head turned immediately to the call. "Stole my money, he did! Unfair fightin'!"  
  
"Um," Orannis started hesitantly, unsure of what to say, "I do believe I might have caused some trouble in your inn."  
  
Ranna looked down the corridor. "They are drunk," she told him, eyeing them carefully. Orannis nodded, grabbing his shirt and his sword. He looked around and found his purse of coins.  
  
"Give my apologies the master of the inn," Orannis calmly said to Ranna as he threw open the window in the room.  
  
Ranna nodded politely, snickering at Orannis' sudden bravado. "I will, sir," she promised with a deep curtsey.  
  
Orannis gave a single nod before he leapt from the window. Ranna hurried to window and watched as the man dangled from the sill of the window.  
  
"Wish me luck," he said with a wink and dropped. With quick reflexes, Orannis grabbed the sign of the inn, swinging twice before he let go and completed his sail to the ground.  
  
Orannis looked up. A group of men had joined Ranna at the window. Orannis felt the pride swelling in him. He dipped low in a mocking bow and then sped off down the street.  
  
----------  
  
Note from me, the author-person: I'm not really sure I'm going to continue this story, but I just had this chapter lying around. I wasn't too certain what to do with it so I thought I might upload it. I've been really busy and I had a lot of writing-doubt lately (due to a simply MARVELOUS teacher of mine - sarcasm). I've only been able to write poems now-a-days (and a chapter or two of my Forgotten Realms fanfiction), but my novel and any other things, I haven't found any desire to write.  
  
I'll leave this story up, but I have no idea when it might be updated or if I'll even continue it. Thank you though, for all the reviews I've been given. =) Latae for now.  
  
~Aithne Veradine 


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